You Look After Us and We’ll Look After You – How the QC Pie Tony Morris Tried to Do a Back Door Deal For a Crooked Judge With His Mate Tony Fitzgerald and Got Sprung – A Wee Little Tale About How the Top End of Town Lawyer Boys Went Within an Inch of Immolating the Most Important Corruption Inquiry in Queensland History


Way back in 1989 this bloke named Angelo Vasta (pictured above) was punted from the Queensland Supreme Court Bench.

He fucking should have been too, because he was a venal, pompous, perjuring, tax-evading, ethic-executing, pusillanimous, putrid puisne prick.

Harsh words?

Well intended. And true.

Angelo Vasta was an arse-licking, career climbing, commissioner cuddling, justice juicing, due process perverting, expense inflating, Fitzgerald fleeing, felicitous fuckwit.

He misdirected a jury in a highly politicised murder case, his misdirection unjustly sending a fella to the slammer for life (gee doesn’t that sound familiar?)

He decided that a lay down misere case against a junket of coppers who injected a pair of junkies with triple shots of Harry Horse, and then lied about it under oath, should be thrown to touch and not prosecuted.

He abused his office by pursuing personal profit while wearing the robe.

He ripped off the tax man.

He ripped off us.

He got away with it for years. And then, like crap shooters run on the dice, in an instant Vasta’s luck ran out.


Terry Lewis’s diaries were produced at the Fitzgerald Inquiry.

They showed that a few years before Vasta had told massive porkie pies to a Master of the Courts in a richly rewarding defamation case.

The Judge had sworn black and blue that he and the corrupt chief cop were only acquaintances on a casual nodding basis.

Police Commissioner Lewis’s diaries – totally damning to him personally, and therefore certain prosecution evidence in the event of any future trials – showed that were not just simply nodders, but rather nudge, nudge, wink, wink Dear Terry and Fam Merry Christmas?, oh yeah Thanks Angelo Do You Wanna Come Down to Our Joint During the Holidays? style mates.

And, most unfortunately for Vasta, a bloke named Ian Callinan – who was a big shot, red hot, barrister later to become a High Court Judge – just happened to in the ringside seats when the diaries entered the bout, and Callinan both hated Judge Angelo’s guts to the extent that he’d tried to block his elevation to the bench, and knew all about the testimony that he’d given in the defamation case.


Being a Tory dog type of character Callinan immediately lagged Vasta to the Premier and the Attorney-General, and before you could say ‘Brisbane Grammar Boys are Stuck Up Small Pricks’ old judge Angelo was fucked.

Fitzgerald asked him to appear at the inquiry to explain himself.

The judge sneered and said ‘I’m not appearing before a mere QC’.

Funnily enough, in doing so he relied on the advice of a mere QC.

A QC pie named Tony Morris, who is no doubt familiar to the sportsfans smart enough to read the real news on this site. He was Vasta’s counsel and Praemonstratrix.

In one of life’s delicious ironies the QC pie Morris also just happened to be the modern day saint Tony Fitzgerald’s best mate.

So Vasta – who steadfastly refused to give evidence that could have cleared his name, if he’d lied – sent his barrister the QC Pie to go and see his mate Fitzy on a Sunday and see if he could cut him a deal.

Morris did the Judge’s bidding and on that fateful weekend in 1988 the QC Pie paid Fitzy and his right hand man Gary Crooke QC a sly visit, much I am sure to their later chagrin, for did his best to pervert the course of justice and get his man Vasta a result that no other bastard could ever have hoped to achieve.

One law for all?

Fuck off. Are you stupid bro?


Fitzy offered Angelo a deal. One the average punter could never dream of.

You look after us and we’ll look after you.

The rub was that it was contingent upon Vasta giving a statement to, and appearing to give evidence before, the inquiry.

Tony relayed it to the judge, and advised that he take it.

Angelo got the shits, because that wasn’t what Tony had wanted him to do the week before. He reckoned that the QC Pie had sold him out.

So the Judge decided to tape his conversations with his counsel.

It almost brought the whole inquiry crashing down.

After all, you can’t have an inquiry into high-level corruption that treats fellas suspected of high-level corruption differently than the average graft seeking sportsfan can you? Shit, people might even start to suspect that Fitzy wasn’t a saint after all.

We’ll tell you the story about what happened next soon. But first we’ll play you the tapes.

Here’s the first one.








Mr Butterfly Flies Back


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Extract from transcript of Dubois triple murder trial. Or farce, whichever you prefer.

It’s waned, not waived dickhead.

And Archie didn’t indistinct himself.

He was unprintabled by an assembly of unprincipled unctuous amoebas.

But Archie didn’t fly away.

He just escaped the chrysalis.

And just by chance, and by way of an island in the sun, the jurisdiction.

But just like The Terminator, he’ll be back.

You may wonder where I’ve been for the past fortnight or so Sportsfans,

In despair is the answer, struggling to cope with watching my Dad take the fast march toward death. He’s not there yet – and I hope he won’t be for centuries, although I’d be kidding myself to think so – but it’s been hard, real hard. Gee I love that man, and it hurts watching him wilt.

But every darkness has a dawn, and so I’ve expended my anger at the Gods and the time of my grief plotting revenge on certain Henry Lawson the wife-basher loving fuckers who haven’t read the Banjo thoroughly, or understood ABP anyway, and thus in their ignorance believe that you can put shit on Geebung boys and get away with it scot-free.

How wrong can a clown be?

You bloody idiots.

The way to get revenge on smart arsed judges and lawyers is to prove them wrong, and have them tossed on appeal.

So guess what Judges?

(Yes one has become two – funny that – and maybe Mr Meredith will be hurled a wig too and we might find ourselves with a holy, or unholy, or perhaps wholly hopeless trinity).

Guess what?

You fucked up. It’s all a matter of evidence, and statute, and law.

Let me give you a little clue.

Douglas Meredith.


Double Hearsay,

Triple hearsay even.

Let me give you another clue.

Painters and Dockers.

Ten tonne importations.

Royal Commissions.


Harboring murderers.

Growing dope in Warwick.

Can’t work it out wig wearers?

Let’s try again.

Billy McCulkin.

The Evidence Act.

Section 93.

Judicial responsibility.

Shortly after.


Williams para 49.


Really? Did anyone think to tell the apple that fell from the tree?


Statements. Witness statements.

Contrasting witness statements.

Or should that be conflicting?

Still lost fellas in red?

Summing ups.


Corroborations about chats in cars. Or not.


We have it all.

Oh dear.

You should have read the Banjo fellas.

And not been such arrogant cuff and collar wearing c*nts.

I know that you can’t understand what I’m on about sportsfans, but just bear with me, okay, ‘cos in the coming weeks I’m about to show you that in Queensland the verbal never really died, and how the legal and judicial arms of our great democracy have hooked a murder trial to put a man away for life on evidence that he should never, ever have faced.

I’m not saying Garry Dubois is innocent sportsfans. I wasn’t there, I wouldn’t know.

But neither were any of the people who jacked up the case against him, and they couldn’t know either.

This is the important thing though.

If they can do it to Dubois, they can do it to you too.

And then what hope do any of us have?

Only the ghost riders of the Geebung Polo Club, that’s what.

That and butterflies.


It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn’t ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash —
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished,
and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.

It was somewhere down the country, in a city’s smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed, called `The Cuff and Collar Team’.
As a social institution ’twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode ’em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them — just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.

Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator’s leg was broken — just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving player — so the game was called a tie.

Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him — all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal — and missed it — then he tumbled off and died.

By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There’s a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, `Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.’
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies’ feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub —
He’s been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.

The Man of Otherwise Good Character Who Loves Watching Little Boys Get Tortured, Beaten and Raped – Sodom, Gomorrah, Civility and the Civil Libertarians in a World Gone Mad



In August 1998 a man named Russell Grenning featured prominently in the report of an inquiry commissioned by Queensland’s then corruption watchdog the Criminal Justice Commission (CJC).

The CJC commissioned inquiry, later to become commonly known as the Kimmins Inquiry, was an investigation into allegations a journalist named Michael Ware – later to become a world renowned war correspondent – had made about  misconduct in the investigation of paedophilia, or pedopnilia as Justice Kimmins from time to time was wont to call it.


In a case of life imitating art, or perhaps being careful what you wish for ‘cos you just might get it, the inquiry itself was the classic example of misconduct in the investigation of paedophilia/pnilia, or perhaps more correctly misconduct in the investigation of misconduct in the investigation of paedophilia/pnilia.

Either way though it was a crock, and ended up being second only on the red hot scale of rigged inquiries and inquisitions to the National Hotel Inquiry conducted by ‘Sir’ Harold Talbot Gibbs in the early to mid 1960’s.

Just in case you’ve forgotten or didn’t know, that was the inquiry that concluded with the man who was later to become Chief Justice of the High Court finding no evidence of any police corruption whatsoever in Queensland, a finding that was unceremoniously demolished two decades later by Tony Fitzgerald who found that corruption was in fact rampant at the time, although for reasons of his own Fitzy exonerated Gibbs from any blame for being dead, dumb and blind throughout the hearings.

One of Fitzgerald’s then close mates wasn’t so kind to Gibbs however. This is what Anthony Hunter Morris QC – aka Tony Morris, Tony Tony Tone or the QC Pie – had to say on the topic of top-level judicial incompetence (or worse):

The Gibbs Inquiry was focussed on prostitution which was allegedly occurring, with police protection, at the National Hotel in Brisbane. The Inquiry was an abject failure. At the time, Sir Harry Gibbs was unkindly referred to as the only man in Queensland who could not find a tart at the National Hotel.

Gough Whitlam – who has his own reasons for not being a great fan of the late Justice Gibbs – has observed that an extraordinary phenomenon occurred in Queensland in a little over twenty years. The results of the Gibbs Inquiry suggested that police corruption was entirely absent from this State; yet, in just twenty years, the situation had deteriorated to the point that the Fitzgerald Inquiry was able to identify police corruption throughout the State, from the highest ranks of the Police Force down. In another speech, Whitlam was less subtle, saying: “… police corruption continued to have immunity as a result of the incompetence of Sir Harry Gibbs”.

For once in his life surprisingly Morris was actually spot on, but I guess I once backed the winner of a Melbourne Cup too – Saintly it was, 1996, only two decades ago which isn’t a bad effort – so we all get it right occasionally.

All of us except Kimmins that is. He was a mile of beam, and in my view very deliberately so, and exonerated every single person except the journalist Michael Ware, who he tied to a stake, doused in DDT and set alight with a flame thrower. Kimmins wasn’t content just to shoot the messenger, he bloody napalmed him.

One of the many – nay, every – areas that he was wrong in were the allegations about a senior public servant named Russell Grenning, who police had detected receiving child porn material from known distributors of the devil’s fancy in Victoria, but had decided not to prosecute due to ‘political reasons’, they being predominantly that Grenning was a mate of the Premier and the Police Minister, and they in turn were mates with the Police Commissioner, and all of the bastards were as crooked as Skippy the Bush Kangaroo’s sticks and protectors of pedophiles to boot.

This is what Kimmins made of Grenning’s guilt or otherwise about being a player in a child porn ring, and if after reading it you become absolutely bewildered by the abundant contradictions in the Judge’s reasoning then rest assured you’re not alone, and remember that Kimmins almost ran Gibbs’ National Hotel Inquiry to a dead heat in the Red Hot and Crooked Cup.


That was 1998.

Fast forward seven years and now it’s 2005 and somehow Russell Grenning – a pervert who anyone with half a brain reading the Kimmins report can work out was as guilty as sin of receiving kiddy porn sent to him in the post by his pedo ring mates – has somehow become the Principal Adviser Corporate Relations for the Queensland Law Society.


Before you start asking yourself the obvious question – WTF?! – let me remind you that Paul ‘Daphnis’ De Jersey was the Chief Justice of Queensland at the time. Let me also touch my nose, wink, point you to a 2006 polemic Grenning wrote about Daphnis for the Law Society Journal (above) and say judge, judge, twink, twink, and then say no more.

The year before his paean to Paul was published Grenning had written an equally unbalanced devotion to a newly appointed Judge of the Queensland District and Children’s Court named Ian Dearden, who in the decades prior to his appointment to the bench has been a high-profile leader of the Queensland Council for Civil Liberties.

Quite oddly though, Grenning’s hagiographical ode to Dearden was accompanied by this decidedly queer cartoon illustration.


Remember the questions we raised about that particular organisation last week? Mmmm. Nudge, nudge, wink …….

Later in 2006 Judge Ian Dearden shot to presumably unwanted prominence when t Courier-Mail revealed on its front page that Dearden had sentenced a 29 year-old school teacher who had filmed himself raping a 14-year-old student that he had assiduously groomed and abused to a suspended jail sentence, despite uncontested evidence having been presented to the court showing that the rapist had threatened serious harm to his child victim if she dared to give evidence against him about his heinous crimes.



Now here’s where it get’s weird Bluebeard, for within hours of  the story appearing on the front page of Queensland’s daily fish and chips wrapper the Law Society took the unprecedented step of issuing a press release about the matter.

The release was allegedly a statement made by the President of the Law Society – an insignificant Cairns based lawyer named Joe Pinder, who coincidentally the very next year found himself appointed to the Magistrate’s bench – but it had Grenning’s fingerprints all over it and he didn’t try to hide the fact, nominating himself rather than President Pinder as the point of contact for all media inquiries.



Now why was the Queensland Law Society going taking up a bat with the media over a Judge’s decision, and why did they do it so quickly, before even a quick executive teleconference could be arranged to work out the official QLS position on the matter?

It’s a good question isn’t it, a really good one, but given my repeated brushes with the oppressive national uniform Defamation Laws slavishly adopted by the State of Queensland I simply ask the questions these days rather than answer them, so you’ll have to work that one out for yourself.

The love didn’t last though.

A couple of years later the child porn allegations that has been swirling around Grenning for the better part of 3 decades resurfaced, and this the evidence wasn’t old envelopes but instead his hard drive, and you’d have to guess that those in charge of the law whose arses he had so lavishly licked must have had an inside tip for just before multiple charges were laid against their hitherto golden haired boy the QLS suddenly found him surplus to their requirements, and made Grenning redundant.

Pockets full of severance pay the confidante of judges and chief justices jumped over to a job as chief promoter for a Liberal Senator named Sue Boyce, but it didn’t last long because the charges were laid, he got sacked (they pretended he resigned) and within a year he was in the District Court pleading guilty to a single count of possessing child exploitation material.


How the f*ck Grenning was allowed to nod his head to just one minor count when in fact he was admitting to possessing 4297 images and 99 actual movies of children – BABIES! – between the ages of birth and six being sadistically raped and tortured is both anyone’s guess, and one of Queensland’s greatest unexposed scandals.

This was depraved, vile, demonic child porn of the most wicked kind.

Little boys ranging in age from babies to six-year-old’s being f*cked, sucked, whipped and tortured. Tiny wee kids being used as sexual playthings by grown men, and treated like allied POW’s in the Japanese Death Camps in World War Two.

I’ve just become a grandfather.

My daughter’s son is the same age as some of the boys in Greening’s movies who are being anally raped by men with 10 inch dicks.

This is what my grandson looks like.



One charge?

This f*cker Grenning had just short of 100 full-length movies showing kids like mine being subjected to the most horrific form of rape and torture imaginable. How can he only have faced one charge? It’s an absolute disgrace, a crime against decency and without any doubt an absolute perversion of the law.

Want to know an even bigger disgrace?

A High Court Judge gave this evil sub-human Grenning a character reference.

I kid you not.

It was Michael Kirby. The famous Civil Libertarian. Judge Ian Dearden’s comrade and friend. The highest judicial officer in the land.


High Court Justice Michael Kirby swore that the man who got his kicks out of pulling himself while watching little kids like my grandson get raped was ‘of otherwise good character’.


What f*cking otherwise?

Grenning was and is a monster. He’s responsible for little kids suffering the horrors of the holocaust wrought upon them by the hounds from hell. Grenning is a hound from hell, and so is every single one of his supporters are than his Mum and Dad.

Michael Kirby is a hound from hell. A civil libertarian my arse.  How did Kirby even know Grenning anyway? No-one asked that question did they? They might not want to hear the answer I guess.

Russell Grenning was sentenced to 12 months in prison. The last 9 months of the sentence was suspended. He only had to serve 3 months in jail.

The little boys in his videos were sentenced to life in hell, their cards marked ‘never be released’.

The Queensland Law Society failed to issue a media release.

And the wolves still walk around wearing the sheep’s clothes and feasting on lambs.


Forget All the Spin and Make no Mistake – Pacquiao v Horn’s the Biggest Mismatch Since Eve Took on Sin and the Snake

Although I haven’t met him personally I’m told by a reputable source (my Dad, who used to be Lord Mayor Graham Quirke’ s driver and has known his cousin the Hornet for years, since way back before he was a boxer) that Jeff Horn is a lovely bloke, and from what I’ve seen of the bloke there’s no reason not to believe him. Horn’s been a fine ambassador for both Brisvegas and for boxing, and the fighter’s conduct during his career has brought great credit to himself, his city and his sport.

Horn’s what they call in the boxing world a stand up guy, one of that rare breed of upright and honest men who you find from time to time swimming in straight lines through pools full of bloodthirsty barracudas and man-eating sharks. The sort of fella that history tells us is always the first picked by the piranha for the first course of their sumptuous Sunday feast, the easy catch the fiendish fish call entree.

Amid all the hoopla and hype of a prize fight promotion, sitting in a comfortable seat at Suncorp Stadium with your senses dulled by the warmth of the soft Vegas sun, it’s easy to forget but this ain’t a gentle Sunday arvo outing to the opera or to watch Eddie Sheeran warble.

We’re on our way to the Colosseum to watch a blood sport. Sixty thousand people crowded around a small 6m x 6m square of canvas staring in rapture at two men inside fighting a metaphorical – and sometimes, far more often than palatable, actual – battle to the death.

Manners count for nothing inside the square. Nice guys always run last.

Horne’s decency is a knock in a knock em down war, but it’s not the ultimate reason that he faces his inevitable downfall.

That reason’s class, and it’s written in the numbers.

Boxing is like horse racing no matter how impressive your win in an Ipswich maiden might be,  is the Melbourne Cup might still as well be a race run in Mars hypure mathematics, the numbers never lie. It’s the statistics that always tell the true tale of the tape. William Stubbs once famously told us that

the roots of the present lie deep in the past, and nothing in the past is dead to the man who would learn how the present comes to be what it is

And ain’t that the truth?

It’s a truth the reporters in our mainstream press appear to have overlooked, although truth be known they are simply in the main ignorant sloths who wouldn’t know the difference between an uppercut and the IBF, or an overhand right and the WBO. You really can’t blame them for not knowing something that they don’t, unless of course you still hold to that old belief that journalism is about uncovering facts, and then like me you might go digging and take a look at the roots.

Let’s talk class.

All but one of the fighters Pacquiao has faced up against in has past 5 fights have been world title belt holders. Between them they have collectively held more than 20 different world championships at given times, and the five including the bloke who had yet to win a title had fought an aggregate of 95 world championship bouts.

The sum total of world titles held at any time by Jeff Horn’s past five opponents is zero. Nil, zip, nada, none.

The bloke who knocked Horne down two fights ago before the Hornet climbed off the canvas and put him away, a German named Rico Mueller who is ranked 87th in the world in the welterweight ranks, fought a bloke with an 80% losing rate – 96 fights for 77 losses – in his next outing in the ring. Just four fights before taking on the Hornet our boy Horne’s last opponent Ali Funeka had been knocked out by a tomato can with who had lost or drawn 10 of his 19 career fights.

Two fights ago Manny Pacquiao took on a boxer of high repute named Timothy ‘the Desert Storm’ Bradley, a former soldier who has held five world titles throughout his career. Prior to his encounter with the Desert Storm the Pac-Man had gone the full twelve rounds with Floyd Mayweather, the 11 time world title holder quite rightly regarded as the greatest fighter of his generation, and immediately afterward he faced up to and beat Jessie Vargas, a three title holder who’s only previous loss was to none other than the Desert Storm.

Is a picture starting to form?

Let’s dig down a sub-strata and look at the numbers the self-interested promoters and the poorly informed press aren’t telling you.

Horne’s last 5 opponents in the ring had a collective record of 142 fights for 18 defeats, meaning that the blokes he had beaten had between them lost 1 in 8 of their career fights, none of them in the top grade.

Conversely the past 5 punchers that Pacquiao took on had a combined record of 162 bouts with only two losses, each of them fought in the highest echelon of the sport in title fights or qualifiers, a stat of less than 1 loss per 80 bouts, all of them against each other in the inner circle of the elite ranks of the sport.

Dig even further down and the picture becomes even more plain.

Let’s have a look at the Pac-Man and the Horner’s previous five opponents and examine the combined records of the previous five opponents that they had fought, and once more you need to view the number through the lens that Horne’s opponents had never fought for a title fight whereas Pacquiao’s all had.

Remember, we are looking at the combined records of the pugs that each of today’s title bout’s contenders last 5 opponents had faced up against. This is how it reads

Horne: 452 – 215

Pacquiao: 671 – 55

And the story it tells is that you’ve all been conned by a posse of promoters out to make a fast buck and then triple it, and a compliant press who haven’t got a clue.

Jeff Horne’s been fighting tomato cans, and getting knocked down or drawn into deep trouble by a couple of them.

Manny Pacquiao’s been fighting champions and, with the exception of the best pound for pound fighter walking the earth, been putting them away.

The reality of today’s fight is that it’s an Ipswich maiden winner facing up against Phar Lap in the Melbourne Cup.  Short of incredible bad luck or horrific injury the Pac-Man can’t possibly lose and Horne simply can’t win, and don’t you worry about that.

So set aside your anticipation punters and simple enjoy your lazy day out in the sun as entertainment, and let’s all just hope that our boy doesn’t get hurt.

The truth might hurt Hornet fans.

But Manny Pacquiao hurts more.


It’s a Long Way to the Top When Your Trainer’s are Rudd and Rolf

Gettin’ robbed, Gettin’ stoned
Gettin’ beat up, Broken boned
Gettin’ had, Gettin’ took
I tell you folks, It’s harder than it looks
It’s a long way to the top …… if you’re trainers are Rudd and Rolf



Manny Pacquiao’s trainer Freddie Roach (above) and a bloke who you can bet your house he wished didn’t looks like him (below)




And Jeff Horne’s trainer Glenn Rushton (above), and  back in the day when he was banging on the drum for Acca Dacca (below)



The Greatest Certainty Ever to Set Four Hooves on the Sunny Coast Sand – Archie Goes the Early Spruik and Gives You the Tip on How to Achieve Wealth, Happiness and Success by C.O.B. Saturday Arvo

They saddle you up, take you to town, better look out when he comes to town ….

Wanna get rich this weekend?

Then back Acatour to win the Sunshine Coast Guineas on Saturday afternoon.

Race 8, Number 1.


Its an absolute moral. A pea, a bird, a sure thing, a lay down misere.

Just like the concert tours by the formulaic yet furiously entertaining rockers that it’s named after, Acatour is a sure fire winner and a guaranteed money spinner.

The only thing that can beat it is bad luck.

There won’t be any, so get Thunderstruck.

You’ve been told.

See you on the beach in Rio.

I’ll be the bloke in the Geebung Rocks t-shirt with a naked Jennifer Lopez sun baking by my side.

The bead twirler will be the sheila with all the diamonds holding a knife in her hand.

The mug punters who refused to cop the tip will be the ones still running around in the rain at the failed Eagle Farm track and trying not to drown when they fall into the divots.

As they say in the classics, and as I often say to Jenny Lo – GET ON!

Jenny always replies ‘Yes Papi’. So should you.

A quick quiz before I go.

Q: Who was it that said being a Grandpa made you feel old?

A: The bloke who didn’t back Acatour.

Take the tip




When We Were Kings – The Rock Guru and Footy God of Geebung Reflects About the Days When the World Was Wide and Digger-Bred Decency Ruled It – Alternatively, a True-Life Tale About How Jesus Was Just a Boy From the Bung

The old black and white Geebung Magpies colors run deep in a Bunger boy’s blood; so does the notion that there’s black and there’s white and we all swim like salmon in between

I recently recounted to Archie a brief version of the premiership-winning Geebung Primary School Grade 7 Australian Rules Team’s season, as coached under Bamford, J, the greatest school teacher that ever lived.


(eds note: and the sexiest)

I’ll be quick in reminding you now.

Old Bamford made us play dead against our two main rivals, the toffs over at Aspley and Aspley East. (Interestingly, those 2 teams contained the kids of 2 of the doctors who drove every day over to the Geebung Clinic to treat us – Balthes, Blair-West and Claxton – though I can’t remember which 2).

Bamford let those Aspley buggers thrash us through all the fixtures of the season. He’d do things like put OUR MATE A DISABLED KID at Centre-Half-Forward, (you know why that’s cool but quirky), or not play some better players.

Everyone thought Bamford was a lunatic (eds note: he was, but then so is the rock star writing this), even the parents all got quite upset, but come the finals he let us play our real hand and then we absolutely steamrolled everybody.

Fucking hell it was good fun. I’ll never forget it. It nearly killed me having to delay gratification like that for a whole season, but then to eventually be able to let the Geebung pig out and run riot on the kids from the flasher part of 4034 – priceless!!!


The pow-wow before the game

I love how seriously we took it.  Even if it really didn’t matter – at that moment, it mattered – the adults didn’t treat us as morons and invested us with a bit of responsibility. Personally, I loved that.


And it was all for one and one for all – look at little OTHER KID WITH DISABILITY there, soaking it all up, lucky to be alive, and would probably would not survive a tackle, but he got a run, and we all looked out for him. How good is that? ….. and watch out for how happy he is in the winning photo.

Macca and I were co-captains and broke the crepe paper in unison. He looks like a steeled and supremely-ready fighting unit. I look like a clumsy freshly-born foal, supremely unready foranything whatsoever – a bellwether for my adult life.


KC and Wardy, the grade seven spunks, watch on. The guy in blue-collar is a very cool dude who is my fave man in the world.

Leaving the field victorious over Aspley-East

Until this GF these toffs from across the tracks had been undefeated. But old Bamford had been foxing, as they were soon to discover.

Just look at the faces on these kids – over the moon…..except me…possibly because I seem to have no pants on, but more likely because I was a worrier, and was just relieved to get the job done.


A ​joyous win for ​the Bungers!


This is where I’m happy to ​look back with rose-coloured specs on our time at that school.​ I’ve banged on a bit about this to Archie already. In some quarters at our primary school, and down the road at WZAFC, I got taught very fucking hard and very fucking fast that it’s everyone’s job to look out for everyone else – a lesson I definitely did not get taught at my high school, nor by my university. ​You guys may not have had the same experience but I can guarantee you this was mine.

You know that ​top hollow ​bit of your chest, ​right next to the shoulder joint​, j​ust under the ​collar-bone​ , above the top ribAs a kid, ​I got a few pointed adult index fingers poked in that chesty area with a some force – it was the “learning” area. Maybe it’s not the best delivery method, but I got the message when this was applied.

Bamford (a champion teacher) was one who did this. He took me aside more than once, poked me in that “learning area”, and told me in no uncertain terms that it’s my job to make sure everyone is looking out for the likes of THE 2 DISABLED KIDS. Fleming (another champion teacher) also laid this on me.

That was the message that went out to more than just me, and I have to say, I ate it up. It still sits irrevocably encoded in my now-addled middle-aged brainbox (eds note: I told him those pills with the smiley faces on them wouldn’t be good for him in the long run. The wanker never would listen. It’s why he hit the cricket ball through the Principal’s window when we were in Grade 6. Or why I told the Principal it was him anyway).

The flow chart in my grey matter has a massive over-riding arrow that keeps pointing back to it.

OLD FRIEND, I know next to nothing about you as an adult but I’ve learnt a bit about Archie lately through his writings. Obviously, he’s a knob (eds note: the author of this piece has always been a c*nt, and jealous of my success with the sheilas) but I feel enormous pride welling up in my “learning area” when I see his ferocious sense of social justice.

Archie boy, I tip my lid to you – I don’t know where you got it from – me, I learnt my lessons in 4034 (eds note: he f*cked off to the inner city to become a rock star long before I had to move out of the Geebung Polo Club so that I could claim two doles)

As already referenced above, I actually appreciated being invested with such responsibility as a tacker – the adults were taking me seriously – I was given an environment early on where I could practice this and fail, and learn how to do it better. That’s pretty cool…innit? ​…..and look at THE 2 KIDS WITH DISABILITIES ​in this photo – they could not be ​bloody ​prouder  of what they have achieved and been part of​.

(eds note: while I agree with the spandex pant wearing clown’s analysis, I must point out that boys from Geebung who didn’t piss off to Pommy Land so they could play at Wembley don’t say ‘innit’)

​In footy terms, they couldn’t get a kick out of a damaged power cable if they were holding it with 2 wet hands, ​but they were totally and utterly part of it. I’m getting all teary just looking at it.


This photo ​above, ​represents my Geebung.

C’mon you two. This is fucking cool isn’t it?

Total and utter mongs …look at the state of all of us. A bunch of dickheads (eds note: speak for yourself you bare torsoed drummer boy) who put their brains and muscles together as one – OLD MATE do you remember this???

In this photo, I also give you KC again, Swan Lake, and Sutho. Babes one and all. And ​then in the front ​there’s Bozo, the cracker of a kid from grade 6 whose dad was a War Vet with PTSD, here he was helping us make merry – great kid​​.

​Finally, the Mr. Holland-designed Geebung logo​, for what it’s worth.

Archie – this should be normal. Life should be like this.